


from a script i overanalyse

by windupbirdgirl



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Language Barrier, M/M, after they move back to st. petersburg, it's happy tho don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windupbirdgirl/pseuds/windupbirdgirl
Summary: “Is that okay? I just feel tired; I can leave first.”“Don’t be silly.” Viktor pauses, searching his pockets for his wallet. “I kind of want to leave now, too.” He adds the last part in fragmented Japanese, and Yuuri’s heart swells to an impossible size, pushes away the bad thoughts, and lifts into the clouds.(Sometimes new things can be overwhelming. Yuuri learns to cope with them.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> for anxiety warnings, see the end notes
> 
> title taken from the song "take" by echos

_(You could spend years perfecting a glass sculpture. Each surface cut and polished meticulously, crafted so delicately that it seemed to flow like water. It could be the most beautiful object in the world._

_That wouldn’t make it less likely to shatter.)_

* * *

Early mornings in St. Petersburg were different to the ones Yuuri had grown up with in Hasetsu. Back in his hometown, the trees and distant mountains would be softly illuminated as if brushed with paint. The familiar arches of Hasetsu castle seemed to glow; Yuuri’s eyes would fix on them, even as a child, when he ran out to practice at the rink before school.

Far away from Hasetsu, in St. Petersburg, the world awoke earlier, brighter, quicker. The grand expanse of towering monuments and squares were doused in molten gold. The pale buildings and intricate architecture reflected light back blindingly, and soon Yuuri began to rise earlier, remind himself to shut the door quietly as he left into the violet dawn.

This was the first difference Yuuri noted once moving to St. Petersburg, but by no means the last.

* * *

 Yuuri checked the zips on his duffel bag, tugged his scarf around his neck, and glanced outside – black as pitch, but that didn’t tell him much. It could be anywhere between 5 o’clock in the evening and midnight.

“Yuuri! Are you still in there?” Viktor’s voice jerks him out of his reverie. Yuuri grabs his bag and leaves the locker room hastily, fumbling for the handle on his way out. The corridor outside was overwhelmed with posters and advertisements, most of which featured the Russian Skating Federation.

Yuuri spies Viktor by the exit, talking animatedly with a few other members of the Russian team. As soon as he spots Yuuri he waves, then lowers his hand and stretches it out towards him. Yuuri takes it, slightly breathless, and Viktor squeezes his hand in response. One of the other skaters, a tall man who Yuuri thinks is called Pyotr, comments something in Russian and Viktor laughs.

“What is it?” Yuuri asks once they’re out of earshot, stepping out of the rink’s comfort into sub-zero temperatures.

Viktor looked confused for a second, then understands. “Oh, he was just saying it’s funny to see me leaving with someone who isn’t Yakov.” He swings their hands in time with their footsteps.

“Oh.” Yuuri winces as a sharp gust of wind batters him, making his eyes sting and lungs burn. It had gotten cold in Hasetsu, sure, but even its iciest days were pitiful in comparison to this; Yuuri’s hands would crack into something horrible whenever he misplaced his gloves, tinged purple and bleeding.

“Did you take a shower after practice?” Viktor gives him a once-over. Yuuri closes his eyes, irritation climbing into the darkness that followed. “You’re shaking.”

“No, I didn’t. I thought I’d wait until we were back.” Yuuri knew where the conversation was going. They’d had the same one three times in the past month alone.

Viktor’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “No wonder you’re so cold. You’ll get sick, Yuuri.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive.” The annoyance is obvious in his snappy reply, and even Yuuri isn’t quite sure why it’s there.

He’s in the shower, hot water kneading the tension from his back when he starts to feel guilt creep into his chest. White suds rush to the drain, and Yuuri watches the whirlpool spin, spin, spin and he has to remind himself to breathe. Turn off the water, take a fresh towel from the rack.

It’s dark when he leaves the bathroom, hair sticking to his forehead as he fumbles for the light switch. He’s learnt that Viktor has a habit of turning lights off once he leaves a room; this would be fine, if it wasn’t for the fact that he often forgets that Yuuri also needs the lights to be able to see. Sudden darkness while cooking, reading or showering had become a common occurrence.

A second idiosyncrasy Yuuri notices is that Viktor can almost always be found on the window seat in the living room. It’s understandable – the window sweeps almost to the ceiling, whitewashed panels reaching the floor. Nestled between the two frames is a wooden ledge, ornately carved beneath soft blankets and blue cushions. Viktor’s head was pressed to the window, eyes closed, earphones plugged into his phone. His fingers comb lightly through Makkachin’s fur. Yuuri padded across the carpet, careful not to disturb Makkachin, and tapped Viktor’s shoulder tentatively.

Viktor started, removing his earphones to stare at Yuuri, wide-eyed. His forehead is creased, mouth weary, and Yuuri feels something tug low in his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri starts, just as Viktor utters the exact same words. Tinny music fills the space between them. He was listening to something classical, perhaps Tchaikovsky. Yuuri gazes at the earphones, willing them to tell him what to say. 

“I didn’t mean to snap.” Viktor’s face blurs, and Yuuri reminds himself to breathe, breathe. “I know you were trying to help. I didn’t think.”

“No, no.” Viktor sits up straighter, looking up at Yuuri with such earnest that it almost makes Yuuri reel backwards. But Viktor’s hands are gentle over his hips, the soothing motion anchoring Yuuri to the earth. “We’re adults. You make your own decisions, when you choose to shower isn’t my responsibility. Well, most of the time.” He adds, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of his lips.

(He’s trying to cheer me up, Yuuri grasps.)

Yuuri’s hand flies to his chest dramatically, mouth opening and eyes widening excessively, a scandalised maiden. “ _Viktor_.”

Viktor laughs, tugging Yuuri towards him, and they meet each other halfway. Yuuri’s chin rests on Viktor’s head, Viktor’s arms secure around his waist. He exhales.

“I can’t believe we fought over personal hygiene.”

“Ah, well. Once someone actually broke up with me because I took them to a restaurant they didn’t like.”

Yuuri hummed, combing his hands through Viktor’s hair. “Maybe it’s good you got out of that one, then.”

“Yes.” Viktor sniffed against his shirt, pulling away. “Should we make dinner?”

* * *

Yuuri makes himself as small as possible, whenever possible.

At the rink he is careful not to intrude, not to leave his skates by the rink, or forget to pick his jacket up off the barrier. He knows he’s different here, something that’s treated with uncertainty. He’s also well aware of the charged atmosphere, the fierce competition buried in offhand remarks and congratulations.

Occasionally, he makes mistakes.

The rink manager, a sour-faced woman in her early forties, is an ever-present figure in the corridors, the front office, snapping in Russian when a schedule is forgotten or a key card is misplaced. She doesn’t pay attention to Yuuri most of the time, for which he is grateful.

 _(‘Her name is Ivanova, Svetlana Ivanova,’_ Mila had hissed into his ear soon after he arrived, watching as she surveyed the skaters with beady eyes, _‘It’s best not to get on the wrong side of her.’)_

It’s a dull morning, and during warm-up Yuuri is practicing his quadruple flip, too focused to notice the commotion on the other side of the room. He notices how the rink seems empty, and takes out his earbuds, confused.

Ivanova converses in a loud, irritated tone with Yakov and three other skaters - she sounds exasperated, throwing her hand backwards to gesture towards the changing rooms. What Yuuri doesn’t expect is for Yakov to turn gruffly, beckoning for him to come over. Yuuri obeys, brushing his hands against his tracksuit.

“Were you the last one to leave the rink last night, Yuuri Katsuki?”

Yuuri blinks. “Yes. I locked up.”

Yakov sighs. “This isn’t about that.” Turning back to Ivanova, he switches back to Russian and she listens with a pinched expression. Yuuri can feel himself sweating, slick under his arms and down his back. He clenches his hands. Why hadn’t Viktor arrived yet?

A few moments later, or it could’ve been years, Ivanova rounds on him. 

“The lights. In the room for changing. The lights were on all night. They are broken, now.” She spits, Yuuri pales. “There is a sign on the door telling you this will happen if they are left on. Even if you are not a Russian, there is a picture.”

“I-I’m so sorry,” He babbles, “I didn’t think. I’m very sorry.” He bows before he can stop himself. “It won’t happen again.”

He becomes acutely aware that there are no other sounds in the rink. His voice echoes slightly, and he can feel all the eyes in the room on him.

Ivanova says something to Yakov in Russian, then laughs. She faces Yuuri, and her gaze is icy. “Respect the rink.” Her shoes make short, harsh sounds against the floor as she walks away. “And then I will respect you.”

The skaters resume their skating, and the babble of voices begin again. But Yuuri feels sick; his skates are stuck in the ice, glued down, his face burns. He blinks, expecting tears, but his eyes are dry as bone.

“You are alright?” Yakov grunts, concerned.

Yuuri straightens up. “Yes, thank you. It won’t happen again.” There’s a familiar coiling in his stomach, so he forces his body to move.

He finds the bathroom furthest from the changing rooms, and locks himself in a cubicle, his vision going black. He doesn’t resurface for almost an hour.

* * *

After training, many of the skaters like to go out to eat together, including Viktor. Today is one of those days.

Yuuri sighs in relief as the warm air hits him, the interior of the café cosily decorated in a way that even Viktor approves of, steam fogging up the bay windows.

Viktor nudges him. “I thought you’d like this one.” Yuuri smiles, too hungry to think about what Viktor meant by this.

There’s a group sitting towards the kitchens, waving. Viktor makes his way over, Yuuri in tow behind him – there’s only about six people there, and Yuuri is grateful to see an empty seat next to Mila.

“You okay?” She’s grinning widely as she says it, but her warm hand that brushes his asks an unspoken question: _‘Do you mind sitting with all of us?’_ Yuuri recalls vaguely that she must have been present when he broke down. He nods.

And it is okay, for the first half an hour or so. Yuuri laughs at jokes told in heavily accented English, clutching at Viktor’s hand like a lifeline under the safety of the table.

But soon the English (the safe, safe English) grows sparser, and Yuuri finds himself fading in and out of the conversation, his mind wandering elsewhere. Viktor doesn’t seem to have noticed, caught up in the excitement of the company and the good food; Yuuri doesn’t fault him for this. After all, Yuuri thought as he prodded at a few lone carrots, Viktor had stayed in Hasetsu with him for the best part of a year without anyone else who spoke his native language. Worse still, only Yuuri could’ve been relied upon for near-to fluent English.

“-- had to choose between returning or staying on as Yuuri’s coach?” Viktor’s tone is bemused. Yuuri returns to reality with a jerk.

“Yes, yes.” An older skater grins, her eyes on Yuuri. “If you had to choose.”

Viktor’s smile widens. It’s forced, Yuuri thinks. “What a question!”

“Tell us! What do you think, Yuuri Katsuki?”

He feels his face turn scarlet. “Oh. I don’t- I would back either choice.” Viktor squeezes his hand, saying something in Russian, and the table laughs. Yuuri feels frantic. He wonders if it shows.

The table next to theirs is served. A plump, cheerful woman ladles soup into bowls, thick and red, and Yuuri thinks of his mother, thinks of the inn, thinks of being able to understand the people around him. He rubs his eyes.

Viktor’s voice is unexpectedly close, and Yuuri jumps, blinking.  “Do you want to leave?” Viktor’s lips brush the shell of Yuuri’s ear, his tone serious.

“Is that okay? I just feel tired; I can leave first.”

“Don’t be silly.” Viktor pauses, searching his pockets for his wallet. “I kind of want to leave now, too.” He adds the last part in fragmented Japanese, and Yuuri’s heart swells to an impossible size, pushes away the bad thoughts, and lifts into the clouds.

* * *

Casual luxury seems to be important to Viktor. His flat is tastefully decorated, and whilst all the furnishings are indisputably expensive, they fit together in a quaint, cosy manner – plush armchairs with colourful quilts thrown over cushions, stainless steel cabinets displaying rows of fine tableware.

Yuuri flops backwards over the bed (king size, cotton sheets) and closes his eyes, turning thoughts over in his mind.

He hadn’t realised he’d drifted off until he hears Viktor laugh from the doorway, and opens his eyes blearily.

“Well, well.” Viktor teases, “It’s only 11 o’clock, sleeping beauty.”

“Sleeping beauty needs her beauty sleep.” He rolls over, burying his face into the duvet. So, so soft.

The bed dips and Yuuri twists towards Viktor, yawning. Arms wind around his waist as Viktor kisses the crown of his head – Yuuri tries to return the gesture, but can’t reach, so he settles for Viktor’s cheek instead.

“This is so nice.” Yuuri mumbles, and he wonders if he could just stay like this. No more rink, no more intimidating skaters.

“Mila told me. About what happened with the rink manager.”

Viktor tried to pry Yuuri away, to look him in the eye.

“Ah, that.” Viktor’s eyes are warm, so understanding. Yuuri reaches out, brushes loose strands of hair out of the way so he can see them better.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounds upset. It doesn’t suit him.

The bed creaks as Yuuri turns onto his back, frowning. “It wasn’t that important. And—” He bit his lip.

“And?”

“I didn’t want to worry you…”

“Yuuri.” Viktor leans over him, tilting his chin forwards with delicate fingers. “What worries me more is when you don’t tell me about things like this.”

 _‘It’s not that simple. It’s not something I can just talk about.’_ Yuuri thinks, but doesn’t say.

“So in the future you can tell me.” Viktor moves a bit closer, his fringe tickling Yuuri’s forehead. “Okay?” Yuuri sighs, distracted – he runs his hands under Viktor’s shirt, feeling the warm skin.

“Okay.” Yuuri breathes. “Kiss me?”

* * *

“What? Don’t lie to me.”

Yuuri winces. Yurio is frowning at him, suspicious, and he’s looking at Yuuri like he _knows_.

“I’m not lying.” He bends down to retie his laces, tugging harder than necessary. “It’s not like I’m going to magically become part of the Russian team overnight.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Yurio is too direct, Yuuri thinks. He feels like a mouse backed into a corner.

“You weren’t acting like this before.” Yurio continues, scuffing his shoe against the floor aggressively. “It’s going to affect your skating.”

It’s easy to see the moment of concern for what it is – Yuuri feels the guilt grow and push its way into his lungs. This is his fault. He’s the adult here, and yet he’s the one making Yurio suffer. 

“You should get back to practice, Lilia said she was expecting you in room four.” Matter of fact, he zips up his jacket and offers Yurio a small smile. Yurio just stares at him, expression unfathomable.

The door has almost swung shut behind him when he hears Yurio ask, “Does he know yet?”

There’s a long, pregnant pause.

“No.” Yuuri swallows. “No.”

He shuts the door quietly, leaving Yurio alone with the lockers.

* * *

The hotel is a grand affair, at the centre of St. Petersburg, ornate chandeliers hanging from ceilings that seem to go on forever. Socialites, businessmen and bourgeoisie intermingle, a classy bustle of designer dresses and champagne flutes – it looks like a set from a film, a fantasy, and certainly not a place Yuuri thought he would ever be.

(Nor somewhere he’d ever wanted to be.)

Yet here he was – hair pulled back, suit pressed, hand looped through Viktor’s arm.

He wasn’t quite sure what the party was for, perhaps a celebrity birthday, but Viktor had been invited, and therefore Yuuri had also been invited by default. There’s a low buzzing in the pit of his stomach, but the alcohol helps, and Yuuri distracts himself with the endless array of food that stretches from one end of the room to the other.

Viktor is in his element. It seems effortless, the way he entertains both groups of men and women, all of whom barely spare a glance towards Yuuri. They fawn over him, giggling. Yuuri keeps drinking champagne.

_Why am I here?_

Yuuri watches, eyes half-lidded, as Viktor talks and talks and talks.

_He doesn’t need you here._

Yuuri remembers a conversation he had with his sister, when the world wouldn’t stop spinning and the voices were too loud. _‘Yuuri.’_ She’d pleaded, eyes creased, _‘Just pretend you’re a part of the scenery. No one looking, no second glances. You can just be invisible when you want to be.’_

Yuuri stands in the ballroom and pretends he is a tree.

Perhaps he’d had too much to drink, but he didn’t care. Viktor introduces him to a young couple – shining brightly, the girl clings on his arm, perfect hair and skin. Her lipstick outlines her wet mouth stickily, Yuuri wants to vomit.

“You’ll have to excuse me.” Yuuri smiles, sweet-faced, detaching himself from Viktor’s side. He doesn’t see Viktor gazing after him with narrowed eyes and an indecipherable expression.

There’s a world that Yuuri can’t reach. There’s a glass wall between him and the people here. Yuuri, in his plain suit with his plain face, can’t even begin to understand them.

He staggers outside and a doorman lurches forward to grasp his arm, a torrent of words falling flat on Yuuri’s ears.

“I’m fine. _Nyet_.”

The moonlight washes over him, but does nothing to quell the panic rising up Yuuri’s throat; it spills out, in sobs and retches, Yuuri gasps and gasps. At the back of his mind, Yuuri knew this had been on the horizon – it would only have been a matter of time, of course. It’s not that he’s surprised by this anymore. That doesn’t mean it’s any easier to deal with.

(He puts his head in his hands, kneels on the cold pavement as it washes over him in waves.)

“Yuuri.” Someone is crouched in front of him. They don’t try to touch him.

“Water.” Yuuri’s throat is raw. “-Please.”                                            

Something cold is pressed against his sweaty forehead. He sighs, leans forward. Exhaustion has settled deep in his bones.

“Yuuri.” Viktor removes the water bottle, unscrews the cap and presses it into Yuuri’s hands.

He drinks greedily, too tired to notice the water dripping down his chin, mingling with sweat and tears. A cool finger brushes his jaw, lightly, as though asking for permission. Yuuri hums in encouragement, and Viktor’s hands find his forehead, brushing away damp hair.

“Can you stand?” Viktor questions, eyes soft.

“Yeah.”

Viktor takes off his tailored blazer, slips it over Yuuri’s shoulders. It’s freezing outside, Yuuri’s breath shuddering out unevenly.

“You’ll get cold.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Yuuri’s too shaken to argue. He pulls the jacket tighter, breathing in Viktor’s scent.

They take a taxi back to the apartment, and Viktor doesn’t remove his arm from Yuuri’s waist until they reach the front door, rummaging in his pockets for the keys. It’s rare to see him so serious, so focused – there’s no trace of humour, no rejoicing as Makkachin scampers down the hall to meet them.

“Go and get changed, okay?” Viktor’s voice is gentle, but not at all condescending.

Yuuri nods, leaning up to kiss him, slow and quiet. Viktor laughs a little, sending vibrations through Yuuri’s mouth – it feels nice, but Viktor is pulling away, brushing his hands through Yuuri’s hair.

“I think we should warm up first.” Viktor whispers against Yuuri’s lips.

“Mm. Make tea?”

“You’ll have to let me go to do that.”

As Yuuri changes, he can hear water boiling, Viktor cooing as he gives Makkachin his dinner. He sits on the bed, the room in complete darkness, and runs through some breathing exercises: Viktor doesn’t interrupt, or rush him.

The kitchen is a beacon. Yuuri flops down into a chair, pulling his legs up and propping his head in his hands. Makkachin’s paws click on the tiles as he runs over, resting his head on Yuuri’s lap.

The atmosphere changes as Viktor sits down across from him. His face is expectant. Yuuri swallows.

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

Yuuri scratches Makkachin behind the ears absently, and the calmness that rolled over him was jarring.

He decides to be honest. “It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. Living here.”

Viktor nods. His expression isn’t one of surprise, or sadness, but understanding. “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

“You have?”

“Of course.” Viktor frowns, “Although- I didn’t think you were struggling to this extent.” His face is pained.

“Well,” Yuuri stands, stretching. He chooses his words carefully. “It’s not always going to be okay.”

“But that’s okay.”

“Yes.”

Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s hand, moving to press him against the table. Yuuri responds, wrapping his arms around Viktor’s neck. It’s very warm, very close.

“Is there anything I can do?” It’s more of a plead than a request. Yuuri considers it for a moment.

“Just give me time.”

The arms around his waist tighten, Viktor laughs shakily. “Of course.”

* * *

It gets better, as the winter months evolve into spring.

Yuuri’s curled up on the sofa trying to watch a Russian cartoon, squinting at the subtitles, when Viktor walks into the room, phone in hand. He collapses down next to Yuuri, and it’s automatic, the way he puts his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Oh, I used to watch this one.”

“I know.” Yuuri points with his foot to one of the characters. “This one reminds me of you.”

“What, really?” Viktor squints at the screen. “Isn’t he the awe-inspiring hero who always saves the day?”

“Maybe.” Yuuri waits. “He’s also extremely over-dramatic. And clumsy.”

Viktor laughs in delight, “Take it back!” His hands move under Yuuri’s shirt, tickling him.

“Never!” Yuuri gasps, feebly trying to shove Viktor away. It doesn’t have much of an effect. He rolls over, out of Viktor’s grasp and onto the floor, still giggling. Viktor clambers back over him, grinning proudly. Yuuri is weak.

“What is it?” Yuuri is out of breath, chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed.

“Nothing.” Viktor moves to kiss Yuuri’s jawline, his nose. “Oh, Yurio messaged me.”

The way Viktor shifts over him does terrible things to Yuuri’s heart. “What did he say?”

“About the ice show next weekend. I don’t think Yurio wants to go by himself. Mila’s going with other friends, apparently.” His voice is muffled against Yuuri’s neck. “You want to go?” He pulls away to look at Yuuri, searching.

“Who else is going?” Yuuri licks his lips.

“Let me check.” He rises off Yuuri to get his phone. Yuuri squirms, grabbing his t-shirt and pulling.

He settles back down, arms underneath Yuuri’s head as he scrolls through his phone. “Mila, Yurio, of course, Lana, --” He recites a list of names, holding up a finger for each one.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

“Really? Great! I’ll phone Yurio to let him know- “

Yuuri scowls.

“I was just joking.” Viktor tosses his phone aside, returning his attention to Yuuri, tracing his cheekbone as if considering a piece of art.

“I--” Yuuri starts, not sure where he’s going with this. “I really like it here.”

“Well, I would hope so.” Viktor’s smile turns tender. “It’s gotten easier?”

Before practice, Yuuri would sometimes get coffee with Mila (Americano for him, an extravagant soy and whipped cream affair for her), who would inform him gleefully of the latest gossip as they walked to the rink - her friends would join them on most occasions, and they’d ask him questions about Japan in stunted English.

He trained with Yurio on Thursdays, helping each other grow during long hours in the ballet studio. At the end of the evening, they’d head down to the rink for free time. Free time had come to be one of Yuuri’s favourite things about training in St. Petersburg - the antics of the Russian team were relentless and sometimes dangerous. Ivanova would watch from this sideline, tutting, but smiling faintly anyway.

Georgi would talk to him during warm up; most of the time he would be explaining solemnly about why his latest ex-girlfriend had left him, but would also recommend places for Yuuri to visit. _‘You have not yet been to the Catherine palace and gardens?’_ He shook his head. _‘Viktor is not doing St. Petersburg the proper justice.’_

“Much.” Yuuri agrees, running his hands through Viktor’s hair.

Viktor looks indescribably happy. Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever felt more loved.

“Good.”

* * *

Yuuri wakes up earlier than Viktor on most days: he lives for the quiet moments before the world starts to stir. When their apartment is silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the birds outside.

Checking his phone, he presses a kiss to Viktor’s hair before dragging himself out of bed – the room barely illuminated, the first light casts a glow over Yuuri as he rummages drowsily for some clothes. The ring on his finger glimmers, but it doesn’t scare him. It’s an anchor tying him to the Earth.

Buildings loom on either side of him as he jogs, Makkachin trotting obediently ahead of him as they make their way through the streets. He squints – the sun is bright, but welcome, as it warms his skin.

It’s no longer strange to be here, like this. There are still suffocating moments, but they’re infrequent, manageable. He doesn’t really think about them.

By the time he gets back, the sun is much higher in the sky, and his fingers slip and fumble over the keys as he unlocks the door.

“I’m back.” He calls, untying his shoes. The smell of coffee and something mouth-watering permeates the house; Yuuri’s stomach rumbles.

Viktor is sitting with a cup of coffee, reading a newspaper. “Good morning.” His voice is still laced with sleep. “Did you have a good run?”

Yuuri kisses his hair as he makes his way over to the stove. “Yes. Did you only just wake up?”

Viktor groans in response, which turns into a yawn. Yuuri beams. They have to be at the rink in an hour. But it’s okay-

They have a lot of time.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> How come some authors on this site can churn out chapters with a 10,000 word count every week when it takes me like 8 years to think of how to start a sentence 
> 
> I feel like this was a lot cheesier than my other fic for yoi but this honestly took me AGES so I'm posting it anyways. this is also un-beta'd so if there are any glaring mistakes please let me know.
> 
> warnings: yuuri has an implied anxiety attack. if you want to avoid it, skip from the paragraph starting with "He becomes acutely aware" to the paragraph starting with "After training, many of the skaters." He then has a full-blown attack and then they talk about it. if you want to avoid this, skip from the paragraph starting with "Yuuri remembers a conversation he had with his sister" to the paragraph starting with "They take a taxi back to the apartment." (I'm not sure if this is actually useful but it's here just in case xx)
> 
> thank you very much for reading!


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